


They do not Hand Their Hearts

by Gnilnim27



Series: The Dead Don't Share [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Psychoanalysis, Serial Killers, Will is lost in his head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnilnim27/pseuds/Gnilnim27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will’s mind swings like a pendulum between two identities, each oscillation a step closer to a different peak. This is when time stops and moves, a conundrum, like Schrodinger’s cat; it is neither dead nor alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They do not Hand Their Hearts

The only time it is quiet in Will Graham’s head is when he stands at the edge of becoming somebody else. 

 

His mind opens up to possibilities, a yawning chasm of another person’s voice calling through the sickly iron sweet smell of blood and sweat. He keeps his eyes closed and rubs his fingers together minutely, feeling the dried flaky blood on his hands turn sticky and fresh. His heartbeat does not slow into a hypnotic meditation. Instead, it quickens with thrilling anticipation for the next step. 

 

There is no lifeless body slumped on the floor. There is a girl, asleep, breathing, her perfume is light and spicy like flowers left out to dry in the sun. Her pulse matches his, beating equally as fast, equally as excited.

 

Will’s mind swings like a pendulum between two identities, each oscillation a step closer to a different peak. This is when time stops and moves, a conundrum, like Schrodinger’s cat; it is neither dead nor alive. 

 

When he opens his eyes, the grip he has on his knife is steady and sure. He stands just through the doorway of the hospital ward, listening to the soft beep, beep… beep… of the monitor. He crosses the room purposefully and climbs atop the girl, careful where he places himself even though he knows she will not wake. He slips one hand behind her head, cradling her like something precious... but she is. She is _exquisite_ and so fragile. His other hand presses the knife against the soft flesh of her throat.

 

Even before he finishes the cut, her blood blooms out of the slit, soaking into the pillow and uncurling like butterfly wings emerging from a cocoon. He stares in fascination as it pulses, hot and wet and alive.

 

\--

 

“It’s not about power.”

 

“No? Then what is it about?”

 

“It was… _right_. Not power. But being right, doing the right thing.”

 

“And saving Abigail Hobbs was the right thing.”

 

“…Yes.”

 

“But killing Hobbs was not.”

 

“It’s not supposed to be.”

 

“You put a very bad man away, Will. It’s all right to feel good. It’s not wrong to feel a sense of control and a consciousness of exacting justice by killing Hobbs.”

 

“So we’ve completed the circle. Power is control, is that what you’re saying?”

 

“Yes.”

 

\--

 

Will knows Hannibal isn’t completely correct but he knows the psychiatrist isn’t wrong either. There is poetic justice in killing Hobbs. No one would ever blame Will for shooting him, no one would ever blame Will for feeling good about it. It isn’t a terrible thing, so why does telling Hannibal felt so much like a confession?

 

He hates being introspective but no one knows Will Graham better than Will Graham. He stands under the scalding shower and turns Hannibal’s words over and over in his mind, lets it fog his brain like steam against glass. There is something flawed in Hannibal’s logic. There _must_ be. He can’t break it, try as he might, push and prod against the steely wall of reasoning but finding no crevice. It leaves something unsettling curled in the pit of his stomach.

 

Maybe it isn’t Hannibal that is wrong. Maybe there’s more than Will is willing to admit to himself. Behind the shades of grey, there are spectrums black, layers and layers of darkness folded down under a façade of conscious morality. He grits his teeth as he starts to shake.  
Will hates being introspective. If he looks too deep, he might not like what he finds. Instead, he turns the water pressure up and lifts his head into the spray to drown.

 

\--

 

“This is a picture of the fungus farm Eldin Stamets was cultivating. Note the meticulous and fastidious arrangement of the bodies.”

 

The picture of the row of hands, sticking out of the ground like some strange grotesque plant in a neat line glares brightly on projection screen. Will taps the keyboard and the next slide of fungus and mushroom covered human fertilizer appears on screen. He can almost smell the sour, woody scent mixed with rotting leaves and wet earth. Under his hand, the faint silky sensation of touching a mushroom’s lamellae comes and goes. 

 

An uneasiness ripple through his audience and he wonders at their capacity or lack of it, to stomach the more gruesome scenes. He glances at the door but no one leaves the hall. Yet. “Eldin Stamets believed that burying his victims as fertilizer for mycelium was the only method he could use to feel a physical connection with people. You have his psychological evaluation in the files in front of you. Now, tell me why Stamets is not a typical psychopath?” 

Several hands shoot up and Will thinks with irony of the hands sticking out from the damp loose earth of a shallow grave. “Yes?” he points to a young woman in the back row.

 

“Psychopaths don’t need emotional dependence. They don’t need to feel a connection to other people. They manipulate others to achieve what is, ultimately their own goals?”

 

“I would have said ‘good’ if that sentence hadn’t ended with a question,” Will tells her, a little irritated by her textbook clarification. “Think about the process, the design. Jefferey Dahmer wanted to form connection with his victims and the only way he knew how was through a crude form of lobotomy. Most serial killers work directly on the object they want to form a connection with. But not Stamets.” He studies the screen. “No,” he says softly. “You’re looking at a man who has given up all hope for connecting with people, who has completely discarded them and has now turned to an inanimate medium. This is a man desperate to be understood.”

 

Eldin Stamets was a sad pathetic lonely man. He was probably misunderstood all his life. He tried to bury Abigail. He _wanted_ to be understood. He wanted to cover her with fungus that would feed off her live body. _He should have died._

 

Will’s eyes roved over the image. What would push a man into a corner so badly that he felt more connected to mushrooms than people? _A man who lived inside his own head too much._

 

\--

 

“So how’s the therapy?” Jack asks.

 

“It’s not _therapy_ ,” Will snaps, as he stuffs papers into his briefcase. The lecture hall is filing out. He can see the woman who answered his question, dithering near the door, hoping to have a word with him. She’s simple and pretty, with brown hair and bright eyes that are a tad too challenging. She looks like she is willing to wait until Jack leaves. “It’s not therapy. We talk,” Will repeats. “He talks, I talk, we both listen.”

 

“Sure,” Jack says indulgently, his smile just short of self-satisfied. “Anything that helps.” 

Will doesn’t answer. “Do you have a case for me or is this turning into some convenient ambush site to check my psyche?”

 

Jack laughs, a truly amused laugh. It’s not one of his better laughs. This is the one that sounds a little condescending, a little too self-assured. Will doesn’t even pretend to smile. 

 

“I’m just a messenger. Dr. Lecter invites us to dinner,” he pauses and stares hard at Will. “I had the impression you were avoiding him.”

 

“I’m not,” Will mutters. “Avoiding him.”

 

“Oh, he didn’t say so. I just had a feeling.” Jack smiles again. Then, seriously, “If you feel uncomfortable with how things are proceeding….”

 

“I’m not…. He’s good at what he does.” Will stops and sighs. “He _gets_ me.”

 

Jack purses his lip. He turns around and notices the trainee still standing there, more curious now in their conversation than approaching will about the lecture. Jack looks at her. She leaves quickly. “That’s,” Jack says, turning back to him. “Good. What’s her name?” he asks, probably ready to kick her out for eavesdropping. 

 

“No idea,” Will replies honestly. He shifts his papers and closes his bag with a snap. There are reasons why Will does not like being on the other end of psychoanalysis but there is no way to tell Jack without sounding difficult and selfish. Because no one should understand Will Graham better than he understands himself. If allowed to dwell on it, Will can admit that he takes a certain pride in being unclassifiable and that he doesn’t fit into any known type of psychosis. His mind is a mystery box, with no corners and a door locked for every room. Only Will can navigate the mazes of his own thoughts and he doesn’t appreciate intrusion of any key not in his hand. 

 

This is why Hannibal Lecter enthralls Will and frightens him at the same time. No one else has managed to get as deep as Hannibal has.

 

When Will looks up, Jack is already walking towards the door. “Don’t forget dinner,” he calls over his shoulder. “And wear something nice for once, Will. I’m bringing my wife.”

 

\--

 

There’s a knock on the door just as Will is about to make coffee. He squares his shoulders, stamping down the annoyance that rises like a tide, slow but evident. The faucet is dripping; the drops hitting the metal sink every half-beat, an unknown rhythm for an unknown song. For a moment, it isn’t water but blood dripping of the curve of an antler. Will squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

It takes an oddly long moment for the knocks to start again. Will places his cup on the counter and walks to open the door. Its Hannibal, dressed immaculately for so early a morning. Will feels the irritation fade even as he tries to hold on with grasping hands. “I could have been asleep,” he grumbles and steps aside to let Hannibal in.

 

“Good morning, Will. I’m sorry. I assumed you would be awake,” Hannibal replies, closing the door as Will putters back to the kitchen. It’s the least sincere apology Will has heard, so he snorts.

 

“I am awake, obviously. You knew I would be awake or you wouldn’t have come at all,” Will says. “It’s not even eight.” It’s ten minutes to eight to be exact. He doesn’t go back to the coffee because Hannibal has brought breakfast again and a tumbler full of freshly brewed brown liquid that makes Will feel ashamed for drinking instant coffee.

 

He helps Hannibal lay out the pancakes, and some sort of German sausages which smell incredible. There’s also a mixed fruit salad with olives. Will experiences an odd anticipatory feeling about Hannibal’s cooking but as always the taste is fantastic.

 

It’s a cloudy morning, the sun not quite up yet and Will’s room is dark but still bright enough to see. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind. The light coming through the window is the kind of blue that makes everything seem a little dead. Even Hannibal looks startlingly pale. “You missed an excellent dinner last night,” he comments.

 

Will hums in agreement around a mouthful of pancake and swallows before answering. “I told Jack I wasn’t up for it.”

 

“Indeed,” Hannibal says and just like that, drops the subject. Will spears a sausage with his fork and watches the fat ooze out from the holes and puddle around his plate. Then he eats it. 

 

Breakfast wasn’t the awkward silence Will imagined it to be. He found they could keep up a steady chatter of mutual acquaintances and subjects without sounding forced or bored. After coffee, Will excuses himself to change and comes back out to feed the dogs before he leaves. They crowd around him tails wagging but obedient enough not to jump or paw needlessly.

 

Will fills up their bowls as Hannibal comes to stand beside him. He expects Hannibal, with his expensive shoes and expensive slacks, to be indifferent towards animals. Instead, Hannibal, bends down and pats Winston gently, as if unsure if the dog would enjoy it. This opens an invitation for the rests to sniff and explore their guest.

 

“Animals are simple, are they not?” Hannibal murmurs, stepping back and letting the dogs get on with their meal.

 

“What?” Will says absently.

 

“Simple,” Hannibal repeats with a calm smile. “Their love is unconditional, their loyalty exceptional. Simpler than humans, of course. And often I find they understand their masters better than I do.”

 

“Well, sure, if you’re talking about dogs.”

 

“Your dogs listen to you,” Hannibal observes. Will doesn’t know what to reply to that. “Why is it do you feel so afraid to be understood?” He catches Will’s eyes before he can look away and suddenly it’s impossible to break the gaze.

 

“I….” Will starts. Hannibal reaches out a hand and places it against Will’s neck, his thumb pressing faintly against Will’s pulse point and his index finger resting behind a ear. Will freezes and suppresses a flinch. 

 

“You’re not used to being touched,” says Hannibal. The thumb moves to press against Will’s cheek, hard enough that he can feel his pulse jump and those long fingers that should feel smooth but aren’t, curl against his scalp, five points of heat. “Tell me, Will, why are you afraid of letting others in to your mind?” Hannibal’s voice is so quiet, the meaning of them disappears even as the sound lingers. Will thinks Hannibal should pull him close or move closer. Hannibal does none of these things and Will is rooted on the spot with dogs hungrily eating meat at his feet.

 

“It’s not a nice place,” Will manages to say. 

 

“I think no mind is nice if we look deep enough,” replies Hannibal and there’s a slight dismissal in his tone. _Not good enough, Will_. Hannibal’s eyes are very dark in the dimly lit room.

 

“I’m not ready… to go to those places yet,” Will whispers. He doesn’t know if Hannibal can hear him but the doctor is as attentive as always. “And I don’t want anyone else there until I….” Until he can bury it under more layers of darkness, layer upon layer, so no one will ever find it. So Will can never find it.

 

Hannibal sighs and lets his hand drop from Will’s face. Will has the distinct impression that he had disappointed him somehow. “It’s alright, Will,” Hannibal says “In time.” And it sounds like a promise.

 

\--

 

Will lays her down on the cold steel table. She’s sedated but not dead. No, if she was dead her skin wouldn’t have this pretty rose colour. Her skin is so beautiful. He buries his face in her hair and breathes and breathes his goodbye. Then he pulls away.

 

He picks up a scalpel and begins to work. Her breathing stutters when he makes the first cut, a neat line starting from her temple. He tried to do it once when they were awake but the screams and the mess scared him so badly he messed up. He works the scalpel under the skin cutting away at the fibers and fats that held skin to muscle. The blood wells and he works fast, peeling back he face bit by bit. Her eyelids flutter. He pulls, slices, pulls, slices… she starts to twitch and stir but he can’t stop now. He pulls a little too hard and too fast, blood spilling down the table to drip on the floor. It comes off with a squelch and he reaches just as quick for the syringe and plunges it into her neck before she can moan. Her breathing stills and stops completely.

 

Oh, _oh_. he smiles and holds up the mask into the light. It’s covered in blood but he can make out her features. He lowers it until her bloody lips touch his and he kisses her.

 

\--

 

Will sits on the couch, slumped bonelessly. His skin itches like it’s about to peel off and he’ll bleed all over Hannibal’s carpet. He closes his eyes, rocks in his seat, opens his eyes and doesn’t make a sound. He knows Hannibal is watching him. Will doesn’t care.

 

Finally he unfolds himself, straightens his legs and looks at Hannibal’s left shoulder. “Can I….” He doesn’t finish the sentence but Hannibal passes him a glass of water anyway.

 

“Tell me about the case,” Hannibal says.

 

Will studies the empty glass. The glass bent the room into strange peculiar shapes and caught all the light in a wrong angle, making Hannibal’s neat study a mess of colours. “Pretty straightforward, actually. Three victims was all Larry Hotchner got through before we arrested him. It was all very messy and… distasteful,” he finishes.

 

“It is unlike you to be so visibly affected.”

 

Will laughs harshly. “He skins their faces and preserves them in fluid. He gives the mask names. The first one was a botched job.” He thinks about Brittany Mills skinless face all slashed up in her struggle. “After that little fiasco, he sedated them then killed them with a cocktail of drugs when he finished with the skinning.”

 

“I imagine they didn’t suffer”

 

Will gazes sharply at Hannibal but there was no mockery, only a thoughtful resigned calm. “No… they didn’t.” He rests the glass on his knee. Hannibal leans forward and takes it from him and places it on the table. Will tightens his jaw. “I’ve been having dreams about killing,” he says in a low voice. “Killing Abigail Hobbs.” He had been trying not to think about them. Dreams were dreams, they didn’t mean anything. “Why would I do that? _I saved her_.” 

 

“Is that why you haven’t been visiting her this week?” Hannibal asks.

 

Will nods, sluggishly. In his mind, the knife is sure. There is blood spilling from her neck, spilling from her face. It’s all red and messy. She has no face now. It’s just a red mask. 

 

“Your acceptance of killing Hobbs, your sense of guilt that his daughter could be an accomplice is over-lapping with the remnants of emotions which you felt delving into both their psyche of killer and victim. It is merely your mind coping with your more imposing thoughts.”

 

Will feels a smile spreading, a lop-sided bitter tilt of incredulity. His eyes narrow as he says,  
“You always have an explanation for everything, don’t you?” It comes out almost like an accusation.

 

Hannibal leans back against his chair, unperturbed. “It is my job,” he says easily.

 

The answer startles Will. He feels himself genuinely grinning then laughing outright. He can’t tell if Hannibal is joking or not, but the man opposite him smiles politely if a little pleased. They fall into an easy silence. Hannibal stands and walks around the room to refill Will’s glass. He hands the glass back to Will and says, “What happened to Hotchner?”

 

Will blinks up at Hannibal, confused for a moment. Their fingers brush against the surface of the glass but Hannibal doesn’t let go and Will doesn’t either. “Hotchner? He uh… He was arrested at his work place. He’s a mechanic. But his family used to run a taxidermy business.”

 

“How morbid.”

 

Will smiles briefly. “Yeah,” he agrees and Hannibal finally lets him grip the glass. He remains standing beside Will, smelling clean and fresh. Compared to him, Will must smell like iron and rusted nails, like paint peeling off walls, like alcohol and dead woman with staring eyes and bloody teeth. He turns a hand over his face and wonders if he could peel it off for a new one.

 

“Perhaps you would like to join me for dinner, Will,” Hannibal suggests.

 

“No, I think I should head home. Thanks,” Will says.

 

Hannibal rests a hand on his shoulder. The warmth seeps through his jacket and his shirt and bleeds into his skin. He lets his eyes fall close and breathes quietly. “Please, I insist,” says Hannibal. And Will allows himself to be persuaded.

 

\--

 

“Thanks for dinner,” Will says when he stands in front of his house. “But you didn’t have to tail me all the way back.” Hannibal shuts the door of his car and smiles.

 

“It was the gentlemanly thing to do,” he says. Will snorts and stuffs his hands into his pockets. They are cold. He hadn’t been able to muster up any enthusiasm for the smoked veal or scallop bruschetta that Hannibal prepared and afterwards he declined the Bordeaux. 

 

He feels apologetic about not having any appetite. It’s ridiculous.

 

Hannibal doesn’t put his hands into the pocket of his coat. He never does. They hang stark and pale brushing against the side of his finely cut trousers. Will runs his tongue over his chapped lips. Behind him is a door to a dark room and a leaking tap that sounds like blood dripping off antlers. He turns around anyway and places his hand on the knob. “I know she’s innocent,” Will says. His stomach lurches uncomfortably. It’s been plaguing him the whole week, like a slow disease, ruining the taste of food and thoughts. He tries not to think about it but he always _is_.

 

Hannibal says nothing so, Will turns and stares him straight in the eye. “She’s innocent,” he says louder. “She _has to be_.” Because if she isn’t then everything that happened meant just a little less, a photograph shot with over-exposure, ugly and gaudy and too bright. And Will would have to put her away. She’s his responsibility now. 

 

But he doesn’t want to think about that. 

 

Hannibal comes up the stairs slowly. Will turns to face him fully and braces himself for the methodical strikes of arguments against his more disorganized reasoning. He stops in front of Will, too close and too impenetrable. There’s a curious gleam in his eyes and a sort of satisfaction like he knows that after one whole week of running around they are back to the beginning of the story.

 

“And what will you do if she isn’t innocent?” he asks. Hannibal’s mouth is very red and his breath smells sweetly of wine and mint. Will drags his eyes back up to focus on Hannibal’s.

 

“I don’t know,” he lies.

 

“Oh, but I think you do.” Hannibal leans forward, not quire touching, Then his mouth his hot against Will’s neck, his nose brushing the skin below Will’s ear. Will shudders involuntarily. There’s a cool hand molding itself around his skull and pressing against his cheek as Hannibal pulls him closer. 

 

“Let me let you in on a secret,” Hannibal says into his ear, voice so low that Will could believe he was divulging the darkest contents of his thoughts. “Humans are predictable.” The word curls from Hannibal’s tongue like a knife. “They strive so hard to be different. But can we really fight against our nature, Will? Because what makes a human better than another, isn’t how they think,” he presses the words hot and open mouthed into Will’s skin. “It’s their nature. It is something given, organic, fixed.” Will eyes flutter shut as Hannibal pushes a wet tongue into his ear. His half hard just from this.

 

In that moment, Will knows _exactly_ what he wants. But Hannibal has other ideas and when Will turns his head, Hannibal releases him and steps back. Will exhales shakily. Hannibal waits until he has his full attention again before saying, “Are you going to fight your nature, good Will?” He clearly doesn’t expect Will to answer and Will can’t give him one. They stand on the small porch, with one dim light bulb separating them from the darkness on either sides, the one within and the one without. Hannibal smiles fondly at Will before bending and kissing him on the cheek. “In time, Will,” he says. “Good night.”

 

He turns and walks back to his car. Will waits until he leaves before opening the door to reveal the darkness within.

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't how I expected this fic to turn out. I'm not sure but I might start a series... I still have so much I want to explore with these two. Hope you guys liked it!


End file.
